Flower Under the Sun
by medleypond
Summary: "We fought many battles together," Phillip told Aurora to explain Mulan's presence. But the story between the prince and the warrior begins much sooner than anyone expects; many reluctant truths lie under their bloodied armor. / An account of Phillip and Mulan's adventures, from their childhoods until their finding of Aurora.
1. Tables Turned

**Prologue**

_Leaning over the beauty asleep, Phillip looks up. "If this works, we don't tell her anything." He seems to hesitate. "At least not right away."_

_The mail over her face may as well be a prison instead of protection; everything she wants to say, every word she's plucked painfully from deep inside her ribcage, dies away as she watches Phillip lean in and kiss his princess._

_The magic is powerful, cutting through her like a sharp wind. And with the princess's first breath, Mulan feels her love take its last._

* * *

"On guard—fight!" shouted Mulan.

Her brothers launched into the fight with gusto, their makeshift staffs clacking against one another, and she couldn't help clapping with delight. Despite the two-year difference between them, Bohai and Jian were equally matched in skill, and Mulan couldn't have enjoyed refereeing more.

"Ow!" howled Jian as the bigger boy's staff whacked him in the side of the head. "Foul!"

"That's not a foul, that's a head shot," said Bohai disgustedly, crossing his arms lazily. "Sore loser."

"You said you'd only do up to the neck today, Bo," Mulan reminded him, biting her lip.

He shot her a look. "Regular little ref, aren't you?"

She shrugged, but secretly she couldn't help feeling a little bit pleased. For the last few weeks, her brothers had bypassed their father and asked Mulan to watch their fights instead. Part of it was obviously because they wanted to be able to show off rather than be critiqued; still, she knew it was partly because they trusted her, and that was what made her chest swell with pride.

"Bo," she asked, still lost in thought, "d'you think I could give it a go? With one of you?"

Both her brothers gave her a long look, and she saw Jian glance at Bohai. Her heart sunk, and suddenly she wished she hadn't asked. Of course they wouldn't let her fight. She'd had no training, and besides, she wasn't supposed to—so her parents said.

"Nevermind. On guard," she said again, her voice a little strangled this time. With mirroring unease, her brothers settled into position once more. This time she drew out the silence, glancing over the sticks, her brothers' expressions of deep concentration, feeling a strange little knot twist in her chest. "Fight!"

Phillip bounced up to the doorway, two guards on his heels. He'd asked them not to come along, but they had insisted.

"I'm sorry, Prince Phillip," one of them had said, inclining his head. "It's your father's command."

_My father._ Sometimes thinking of his father made Phillip want to hit something. They usually got along well enough, but the king had always been protective, controlling even. He'd already gotten Phillip betrothed, to Princess Aurora—Phillip only knew the name, not the girl. Still, he thought, eighteen was still a long way away from ten. He had time.

Shaking his head to clear it, Phillip knocked sharply. Within a few moments, a tall, slender woman answered, her shiny black hair pulled up into an elaborate knot. She smiled gently at Phillip. "Hello, Phillip." She was one of the few people besides his parents who could call him by his first name.

"Hello, Lady Fa," he said cheerfully. "Are Bohai and Jian home?"

"They're in the garden practicing. You know the shortcut," she added, gesturing to the neat garden path that wound around the side of the house. "I'll call you in for lunch later."

"Thank you." Phillip bowed—the movement more one of respect than obligation in Lady Fa's case—and then, in a burst of speed, ran around to the side of the house. He couldn't hold back a laugh as he dashed down the path. _See how the guards like that._ The garden was, as Phillip had learned, actually laid out much more intricately than one would think, and it would take them a while to find him. Enough time for some fun.

He slowed at the end of the path, panting. He'd never admit it—his father would call it unmanly–but he liked the Fas' garden, the flower in all different shades, some of which he'd never seen anywhere else. He liked the way the willows dipped over him as he moved through the rows, following the faint sounds of blows and yells.

Finally he came upon his friends, exchanging parries and circling around each other. Their little sister—Mulan, if Philip remembered right—sat on a stone wall separating a few rows nearby. She seemed to be watching intently, not yelling or giggling like he'd expect a little girl to do.

"Got room for one more?" he called, grinning.

The boys stopped fighting and turned around, initial surprise taken over by grins of their own.

"Not with your fancy sword, Prince," replied Bohai, gesturing to the midsize scabbard hanging at Phillip's belt.

Phillip shrugged. "I'll take a stick, then."

Jian came forward, holding out his staff with a shake of the head. "Here. I need a rest anyway."

"Quitter," Bohai threw at him, but the insult was backed by a good-natured smirk. He looked around slowly, seeming thoughtful, and when he smiled, Phillip couldn't help feeling defensive.

"What?"

"How about a warmup, Phil?" asked Bohai.

Phillip raised an eyebrow. "What sort of warmup?"

Bohai smiled wider and, to Phillip's surprise, turned to his sister, who'd been watching them from the wall all this time. "Hey, Flower. You want to take over for me?"

Mulan's face seemed to light up, and she slid off the wall eagerly enough; but it seemed that as soon as she touched the ground, her features settled into a wariness Phillip recognized more easily. "Phillip's a prince." It was funny; she said it so simply, as if she were saying something like, "Bo's my brother."

Bohai shrugged. "So?"

"So he's had training like you. Better than you."

"I've beat Phil," piped up Jian with a scoff, giving Mulan a look. "How d'you know till you try?"

Phillip thought it a bit cruel of his friends to get their sister's hopes up; true, both brothers had beat him, but it was always because of some slip-up, something unexpected. And she was right: he'd had training, a lot of it, certainly more than her.

Still, a warmup was a warmup.

Almost at the same time Phillip made up his mind, Mulan reached for Bohai's staff. He relinquished it to her almost lazily, stepping back to allow her to face Phillip. He only had a few moments to look at her—small, dark, gripping the staff firmly—before Bohai interrupted.

"On guard!"

* * *

"Fight!"

Phillip lunged much more quickly than Mulan expected, forcing her to throw herself back. _Focus, focus._ She brought the staff up across her front like she'd seen Jian do, meeting Phillip's with a louder _crack_ then she expected—she flinched at the sound without meaning to. She heard one of her brothers snigger, and embarrassment hardened into determination.

Phillip was fast, it was true, but his strikes were light, not meant to touch; he moved with too much flourish. Furiously blocking, having to step back nearly into her mother's bed of dragon lilies, Mulan squinted, trying to gauge the pattern in the prince's movements.

And in a split-second that seemed to stretch into forever, she saw it. An opening.

She blocked his staff, pulling it to the side with her own, and thrust it toward his belly.

The blow took him by surprise, that much was obvious; she couldn't help but feel a little pleased with herself as he staggered backward. He recovered quickly enough, but by then Mulan had advanced, and the two of them were equal again.

"Hard right," she muttered to herself under her breath. "Left. Double block. Parry." She was helping herself through the motions, recalling her brothers' moves, adding her own where she thought they might work—even if they didn't always.

She could see Phillip was surprised—the easy grin he'd had at the beginning of the match had given way to deep focus like her brothers', the corners of his mouth pulled down slightly.

"Think you're fancy, don't you?" he said irritably, blocking faster and faster. Mulan only smiled; he was getting impatient, and her father always said impatience in a fight was the first step toward defeat.

So it was: another few moves—left, outside block, right swing—and she had another opening. She spun and whacked the staff clear across Phillip's chest. He collapsed to the ground and lay there for a few moments, breathing heavily.

Mulan took the sight in: the end of her staff was pointed right at his Adam's apple, his chin lifted to avoid knocking it against the wood. Finally she couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

"I win," she said quietly, but with a note of glee she couldn't hope to hide.

There was quiet in the garden except for a few rustles—then two royal guards burst through the nearby greenery. Startled, Mulan jerked her staff away, stepping away from Phillip.

"Your Highness!" One of them rushed to Phillip's side, quickly bracing an arm under his back to help lift him to a sitting position. The guard looked up, narrowing his eyes at each of the Fa children in turn. "All right, which of you little rats did this?"

The other guard came forward, snatching the staff from Mulan's hand. "The girl, eh? This is your prince, not some jousting jockey!"

She felt her face scrunch, the way it did before she started to scream. And then—

"Leave her alone."

Mulan whirled around; the voice was commanding, sure, and not at all what she'd expected from Phillip.

"It's all right." Phillip was holding out a calming hand, holding his chest with the other, still panting as he looked between Mulan and the guard. "We were practicing. I tripped over my own boot." He made a face. "Clumsy."

Mulan stared at him, her heart hammering in her chest. Why was he bothering? He was prince, he could very well have her thrown in the dungeons her brothers had told her about.

The guard leveled another look at Mulan, this one doubtful, before nodding at his fellow, who helped the prince to his feet. The first guard held the staff out to Mulan, who took it quickly, gripping it tightly to her chest. Not only were the guards tall, but she really didn't like the sharp shoulder studs in their armor. It made her shudder to think what would happen if one of them were to throw her over their shoulder.

"…but please, your Highness," the guard was saying when she tuned back in, "don't just—run off like that. Your father said—"

"I know, I know," said Phillip, with the first real flash of annoyance Mulan had seen from him. "I'm fine, though, aren't I? I know this garden."

"Yes, well… we'll be nearby," said the other guard gruffly, and the two of them retreated, settling on a low stone wall about ten yards away, their eyes still on the children.

Silence fell over the four of them again, until Bohai cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Right. Well, I'll just take that, then."

Mulan didn't fight, letting the staff go easily. She felt torn, halfway between triumph at her victory over Phillip and guilt because he'd covered for her. Involuntarily, she glanced at him, and felt a little jolt go through her chest when she saw he was looking at her too.

"That was good," said Phillip finally, with a nod in her direction. She couldn't help the burst of satisfaction she felt; he was a prince, after all, a well-trained one.

And then he turned away, toward Bohai, and the two of them sunk into defensive stances.

"On guard!" yelled Jian, eyes swiveling between the two bigger boys. "Fight!"

Mulan went back to the wall, climbing up easily, a strange feeling in her chest. She'd had her one brilliant moment, standing and grinning down at Phillip, who'd looked so surprised—but that was over. She was just the little sister again, just another obstacle. A warmup.

As she watched Phillip and her brother exchange blows, she felt some part of her resolve harden, she thought: _That's going to change._


	2. Preparations

**A/N: This is more of a transition chapter than anything else, as I've been super busy with school. But rest assured, the action is coming! I've adopted somewhat of a format, as you'll see; there will be two stories told, in the snippets at the beginning and then through the main narrative. It's up to you to see where they intertwine.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_The first pulse of magic is sharp, knocking the wind out of her, but from there it slows, like a bottle emptied of its last contents, as the princess sits up and Phillip breaks into a smile._

_"Phillip," says Aurora, and the sound of it, the tender breathiness of her relief, is like a knife to Mulan's stomach. She's said his name so many times in the past few months, but never like that. _

_"I told you not to come after me," Aurora goes on, but Mulan can tell the princess is pleased under her scolding. And who wouldn't be pleased to have a prince battle man and beast, venture over cliffs and across brooks, to rescue you? _

_Phillip, too, looks entirely too pleased, back to the boy-prince Mulan first knew. They're like children as they kiss, eager and a little clumsy from lack of practice, but Mulan still has to duck her head at the sight. It makes her think too much of a familiarly wide, bright room, filled with every color imaginable._

_Her chest aches as she steps away from Aurora's thorny platform. She has no refuge, not in the real world nor in her own thoughts._

* * *

"Have you put the china away?"

"Yes, Mother."

"In the right cabinets?" Lady Fa went on, giving Mulan a knowing look.

"Yes," replied Mulan, but it came out too slowly—she knew by the look on her mother's face that she was caught.

Lady Fa nodded at the doorway Mulan had just come through. "Go and rearrange them."

"Why?" said Mulan, feeling impatience creep into her voice. "They're all back _somewhere_, aren't they? Isn't that enough?"

"And what do you think your grandmother is going to say when her ancestral china is all out of order?" Lady Fa pointed decisively at the doorway. "Go. If you focus, it won't take long."

"Like that's ever been true," Mulan muttered, turning and following her mother's finger sullenly. She was getting tired of these new routines her mother imposed—supposedly to prepare her for the matchmaker, but she couldn't see how practically cleaning out her family's china cabinets was going to be at all helpful in finding her a husband.

The worst part was that whatever Mulan said, however she might snap back or grumble, her mother was always a portrait of calm, never raising her voice. Sometimes Mulan longed to be shouted at, if only to release the knot she felt tightening in her chest as the days trickled down to her meeting with the matchmaker. More than once, Lady Fa had threatened to bring her husband into their little squabbles, but that always quieted Mulan. She wanted release, maybe, but she didn't have a death wish.

Thoughts still stormy, she practically stomped into the entrance hall to walk across to the pantry—but was stopped by a voice.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Her heart leapt at the sound, and all thoughts of china and marriage were practically tossed aside as Mulan ran to the door and pulled it open.

There was a young man at the end of the path, outfitted in the forest green outfit that Mulan knew well, peering around the side of the house. At the sight of her, he grinned and tethered his horse hurriedly to the gate, jogging up the path to meet her.

"Jian!" She couldn't help the squeal in her voice as she ran forward and threw her arms around her brother. He smelled like pine and sweat and soap, his low laugh rumbling in her ear as she held him tightly.

"Miss me?" he asked as he pulled away.

She made a face. "Ma's got me doing the china."

Jian whistled. "Don't wish I was you."

She swatted his shoulder lightly. "Can't say the same. How's the training? How are the other boys?" She knew she was talking much too fast, too excitedly, but she didn't care—it had been weeks since she'd seen either of her brothers, the two of them as ensconced in the whirlwind of army training as they were.

He raised his eyebrow. "You wouldn't be husband-hunting in the army, would you, sis? Wouldn't recommend it. Lot of blockheads, most of them."

"Shut up." She almost swatted him again, but contented herself with sticking her tongue out and tucking her arm into his—he was much too tall for her to even attempt his shoulder. "Come on. They'll all want to see you. Ma!" she called as they went up the steps together. "We've got a visitor!"

The rise in sound was sudden and made Mulan wince; one moment she and Jian were standing in the empty entrance hall, and the next her mother and grandmother were rushing in from opposite doorways, exclaiming and gasping and getting tearful all at once. She let the older women pull her brother away, but not before breathing, "Don't wish I was _you_."

He gave her a look, but she only smirked as the women pulled him into the parlor and down onto one of the cushioned chairs, beginning to question him much as Mulan first had. She took a chair a few feet away, watching Jian start to squirm, tuning out the actual conversation to study him.

He was leaner than when she'd last seen him; the training was starting to show in the sculpt of his shoulders, the sharpening of his cheekbones. The boyishness was fading from his face, and even from feet away, she could see the calluses on his hands—probably from day after day of wielding heavy weapons. Still, he didn't look unhappy; how could he, she reasoned, when he was doing what he'd wanted to all his life, learn to fight and maneuver, all while bearing the kingdom's crest? And alongside Bo and Prince Phillip, no less. It stung, she had to admit, that things had fallen so easily into place for her brothers.

"…But for now they're preparing for the betrothal—"

Mulan came back to the present; her mother and grandmother weren't speaking anymore, instead hanging on Jian's every word. She cleared her throat. "Betrothal?"

"Phillip's," Jian explained. "To the princess from the next kingdom over. It's soon now, and Phillip's drilling us like a sergeant." He shrugged, grinning. "S'pose he's entitled, given the person he's supposed to impress is his future queen."

Mulan struggled for a witty answer, and found she had none. In recent years, she'd only seen Phillip in moments and glances as their worlds diverged; he'd come around to the house for her brothers a few times on leave, for riding or hunting or some such other thing, but they hadn't spoken beyond the expected pleasantries. She pictured him in her head: he was only just starting to grow a beard, his eyes still sparkling with mischief, his laugh almost impish. He was so young to be married; and then she remembered glumly that her own mother was attempting the same for her, and thought that maybe—unfortunately—he wasn't so young after all.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any, then," said Lady Fa, seeming to choose her words carefully. She looked over at Mulan. "Mulan, you'll be attending, with me and your father, in full ceremony dress. We expect you to act accordingly."

Mulan stared at her mother, trying to sort through what felt like an explosion in her head. The betrothal was sure to be crowded, full of life, and she'd get to see her brothers in action—but she dreaded the ceremonial clothes hung up in her parents' bedroom, the protocol and the snappy nature of the women at court.

"Do I have to?" she said finally, knowing it was a lost cause even before she asked.

Jian leaned over, patting her knee. "Hey, cheer up, sis. There'll be a whole lot of good food."

At the sight of his wiggling eyebrows and her mother's disapproving look, Mulan couldn't help smiling a little, even if it felt like something was tight across her chest.

* * *

Clangs and grunts filled the air as Phillip strode through the courtyard. He couldn't help thanking the powers that be that it wasn't an inspection day; he wasn't sure he would have been able to hold out under the blazing sun with armor on, on top of everything else.

"Wrists up!" he called, and the trainees changed their stances accordingly. "You need to cover the lower ribs as well as the upper chest, they'll be waiting for an opening!"

"With all due respect, sir," said one of the trainees, stepping from his line with one eyebrow raised, "I'm fairly sure wild beasts don't think tactically. And I'm dead sure ogres don't."

It was as if the entire company held its breath for a moment; not a single sword swished through the air, and no stance of attention was broken as Phillip looked at the lean young man, who stood eye to eye with him.

"I appreciate your input, Soldier Fa," he said, trying to keep his voice even, "but I think you can leave the tactical decisions to me." Still not taking his eyes off the soldier, he raised his voice. "Back to your positions!"

Motion resumed around them, and with a final glance at Phillip, Bohai took up his stance again.

It wasn't until the very end of the session that Phillip made his move.

"Soldier Fa!" he called as the men replaced their swords in the nearby rack and crowded around the water pump. "I'd like a word, please."

The others gave Bohai looks, sympathetic looks, ones that said _Sorry, but not sorry. _Bohai went to the water pump and took a long swig before finally leveling his gaze at Phillip and strolling over, the men behind him starting to mutter and disperse for the day.

Phillip waited until Bohai was only a few feet away, and then crossed his arms and lowered his voice. "Bo, you can't just do that."

Bo raised an eyebrow, just as challenging as before. "Oh? Why not?"

"You know why not. I'm trying to run practices here. My father's relying on me to get these men trained and ready for battle."

"Ready for tourneys, you mean," Bo muttered with a shake of his head, a faint smile playing around his lips.

That one stung. Phillip knew his training had been full of flounces and flourishes, but that wasn't to say it wasn't solid. "Are you saying I don't know what I'm doing?"

Bo shrugged.

"Because that would be insubordination. Even treason, since you're criticizing your prince." Almost as soon as the words were out of Phillip's mouth, he regretted them; if the sour taste that came after them wasn't enough, then the look on Bo's face was.

"Calm down, _your Highness_," said Bo, the tone of his voice as he emphasized the title equal to a verbal eye roll. "I just think you could use a few pointers, if you actually want to train us." His mouth quivered, dangerously close to laughter.

"Things just need to be in place for when she arrives," said Phillip earnestly. "It's not as if she'll be trailing in a pack of wolves, will it? We don't need to go through rigorous combat just yet."

Bo actually rolled his eyes this time. "I don't get why you're so worked up. You've met the girl once in your whole life, Phillip, and she was in the cradle. Literally."

Phillip struggled with the tangled mess of thought that had been nagging at him for days. Bo was right—what reason did he have to make such an effort for Aurora, when he hadn't seen her in more than a decade, nearly two? He took a deep breath. "I just—I want to get this right."

"For her, or for your father?" asked Bo knowingly.

Phillip winced. Bo really did know him too well. "Both?"

Bo shook his head, chuckling, and gave Phillip's shoulder a solid pat. "Breathe, idiot. I don't think you do that enough."

"I'll breathe easier when Jian's back from leave," muttered Phillip as the two of them set off for the barracks together. "He listens, at least."

"Ah, but then you wouldn't have to show us who's boss," said Bo, holding out his arms and grinning. "And I think you want to, don't you, your Highness?"

Quickly, so quickly that the air in front of him seemed momentarily hazy, Phillip swiped a sword from the rack and took a swipe at Bo. The other boy jumped out of reach, laughing.

"Practice is over, chief!" he yelled, starting to jog. "Hurry up, or you'll be late for mess!"

As much as he hated to think it, Bo was right—the conflict drove Phillip forward, kept him from getting sloppy. Though he'd never say as much, Phillip needed Bo's defiance more than he tried to control it.

Sighing at the thought, he slid the sword back into the rack, wiping his brow with his sleeve. The deflated feeling of defeat gave way to a new determination as he hurried to catch up with Bo. No matter who it was for; the betrothal would be perfect, so long as he commanded these men.

* * *

"_That's_ why she's had me doing the stupid china!" hisses Mulan, taking a vicious swipe at Jian in the dark.

He blocks it easily, almost lazily, and rolls his eyes. "Calm down."

"Easy—for _you—_to say," grunts Mulan, thrusting the sword toward her brother with every couple of words. "You're doing what you want to do, aren't you? Training, fighting, getting fresh air, even. Ma barely lets me out here."

Talking about the betrothal seemed to have acted as a trigger for Lady Fa; for the remainder of the day, she'd been more animated than Mulan had seen her for a long time, talking over dress choices and protocol with Mulan's grandmother beaming nearby.

It made Mulan that much gladder to escape the house once night had fallen, meeting her brother in the garden for their usual midnight training rounds. They'd developed the habit when Bo and Jian had first gone off to training years ago; Mulan had begged her brothers to teach her what the royal instructors knew, but they had to do it in secret, away from the family's disapproving eyes. The darkness, combined with the considerable range of plants in the garden, provided sufficient cover, and they made sure to retreat far enough into the greenery to muffle the sounds of the weapons.

"She's been planning this all along," Mulan went on, blocking Jian's smooth strikes one by one. "It's not the matchmaker she's worried about, it's the court!" Breathing heavily, she held up a hand to signal time-out and stuck her sword deep into the ground with one strong thrust. It quivered there as she put her hands on her hips, trying to catch her breath. "Doesn't she realize this is about the prince and princess? It's not a way to make my debut!"

"She knows that," assured Jian, sliding his own sword back into its sheath. "She's not looking for you to get attention. All right," he added hastily as Mulan threw him a look. "She is, but not that way. She just wants people to see you've grown up, that you're becoming a lady. You never want to go to court as it is."

"There's a reason for that." Mulan ran a hand through her hair, her heartbeat starting to slow, sweat beading along her hairline. "They're like dolls. If they can sit around at court eating and talking and sitting in the gardens, why can't I do the same thing at home?"

Jian sighed, rubbing his eyes. "She's just looking out for you. And she's right to." He looked up at her, and she was a little startled to see how pained his features were. "You know we can't do this forever, Flower. Eventually you're going to have to give it up. You're not supposed to fight."

The use of her nickname caught her off guard; the boys only rarely used it now, and to hear him say it so softly almost hurt. She had to swallow before she spoke. "Just because I'm not supposed to doesn't mean that I don't want to. Or that I can't."

Jian shook his head, the tendrils of hair around his ears swaying slightly. "You know as well as me that's not true."

The decisiveness in his voice made Mulan's eyes sting. If her own brother couldn't believe in her, what choice did she really have? However much she wanted it to be otherwise, he was at least partly right—she could fight all she wanted, but at what cost to herself, to her family? Granted, she preferred swordplay to wordplay, fighting to flowers, but she did have a sense of honor. Her father had made sure of that.

She yanked her sword from the ground, clearing her head with a few swings through the air, the steel glimmering slightly under the faint moonlight. She took a deep breath. "Ready. Back to guard."

She knew Jian was giving her a look, probably one full of doubt, full of pity—and neither of them were what she needed right now, so she kept her eyes on the plain hilt of her sword until he was in guard stance. She took a breath. She was all blocks and parries and metal and muscles, and there were no more thoughts of the betrothal as she took the first swing.


End file.
